Thus the two leaders found themselves face to face. The Greek Count of Montenero was not gorgeous now, he had been in close combat and was as bloodily stained as the Norman, and if he was fresher, he lacked Roger de Hauteville’s height and reach: the Norman sword swung in a wider arc than his, making it hard for him to get close to landing a blow, and by engaging as he did he had created a situation he would have been well advised to avoid. The men knew their leaders: the contest had become personal, lessening the general melee, and the count was no match for the man he faced.
He fought valiantly, even as it became clear he was outmatched, his sword taking blow after ringing blow as he put up a stout defence, never letting it show that, barring a shock, there could be only one outcome. Swinging hard and continually, his arms and shoulders aching from the continued effort, Roger beat down the man’s every effort to best him, wondering why he did not drop back, let fall his sword and beg for succour.
Yet Roger knew why he fought as he did: this was his fief and, in effect, his life. Everything he had of himself and his personal esteem coursed through the blade with which he fought: he had to kill this man before him or die in the attempt, there was no other way with honour. That came when he, tiring also, failed to parry a sweep of Roger’s sword and in seeking to recover from that error he left himself exposed. The following blow, the broadsword held high and swung with maximum force, caught the man at the join of his shoulder and neck. It did not decapitate him, the mail cowl under his helmet prevented that, but the blade sunk deep into his neck, forcing his head to cant at an angle, as a fount of bright-red blood spewed from the ruptured arteries and the light died in the man’s dark eyes.
Those he had led lost heart, but they had so incensed their Norman opponents by their fortitude that few were spared, so that the hard ground of the interior of Montenero was fed with much blood. Some fought on with the despair which comes from knowing death awaits and it is better to expire fighting than on your knees, falling back until they found themselves under the canopy of that ancient acropolis. It ended there with slaughter and the Norman leader, his chest heaving, leaning on his sword, rasping that combat should cease, aware that for once, he was being ignored.
When it did stop there was no one left to kill and Roger, looking around the stone columns of the ancient building, tried to say that what held them up would make fine foundation stones for his castle: tried but failed — he lacked the breath to make himself heard even by the men right at his side.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I have been faithful to my word, Robert, sending you everything I pillaged as well as the revenues I have gathered from those who submitted.’
‘Everything? I think not, Sprat.’
‘Stop calling me that.’
‘I am your liege lord, I can call you what I wish.’
Roger was aware that his brother was uncomfortable, as to his mind so should he be. Famed for his generosity, he had not been that with him, quite the reverse: the revenues sent to Melfi in the last year had stayed there in their entirety.
‘I decide who is my liege lord, not you, and as of this moment I am not inclined to acknowledge a man who acts like a common thief.’
‘I will not let you address me so,’ Robert yelled, his voice echoing off the stones of the great hall. Meant to cow Roger, it signally failed to do so.
‘How are you going to stop me, unless you are willing to use your dungeons? I cannot pay my men, damn it, Robert, I can scarce feed them. What happened to the half of the revenues I was promised, all that gold I sent you?’
‘It has been used wisely.’
‘For what?’
‘The needs of my holdings, which are of paramount concern.’
‘Your coffers are full to bursting, I’ll wager. Is it that you have become a miser?’
‘The revenues of the lands I have are mine to do with what I wish…’
‘Which clearly does not extend to keeping a solemn promise.’
‘Promise? I recall no promise.’ The booming voice had mellowed, but it was the sly look that went with it that really annoyed Roger. ‘A discussion yes, a proposal and one larded with avarice from you, given you were without prospects lest I grant them to you.’
‘Have I not served you well? Half of Calabria accepts you as suzerain.’
‘You have served me as you should.’
‘Perhaps you fear me, Robert.’
‘If you believe that you are a fool.’
‘The one thing am I am not is a fool, brother. Pay me what you owe or I will depart your service.’
‘Do you think you, of no account, can threaten me?’
‘If I am of no account I may as well depart.’
Seething, Roger turned on his heel and left. The next heard sound was of him and his knights riding out of the castle of Melfi. What should have troubled the Guiscard more was that accompanying them were Ralph de Boeuf and many of the men Robert had sent with his brother to Calabria.
‘I have never known him like this,’ Geoffrey said, ‘And I have good reason to say those words, for Robert has never been short with me.’
‘You are another one,’ Roger replied, not without asperity, ‘who is going to boast of his liberality, something I am sick of hearing about.’
The remark made Geoffrey frown. ‘I beg you take some more wine and calm yourself.’
‘How can I be calm? How can you just sit at this table and eat and drink while I am being cheated?’
If Roger had a reputation for being diplomatic it had deserted him in the face of his treatment. He had been fuming since he left Melfi and no amount of hospitality from Geoffrey was going to assuage it. Two years he had spent campaigning in Calabria, sustained by the promise of two things: half the revenues, obviously, plus the promise that Robert would return to complete the conquest of the province once he had settled matters in Apulia. Neither had been kept and Roger had found himself making war with diminishing resources and disgruntled lances, men not being paid that which they were due because everything was being remitted to Melfi. What plunder they acquired from resistant places like Montenero did not last much beyond their desire to celebrate with wine and women. His own purse had been emptied to keep them fighting but that was now bare.
‘I am at a loss to know what you think I can do.’
About to bark at Geoffrey, Roger stopped himself: abusing this affable and somewhat ineffectual de Hauteville would do nothing to help him. Geoffrey had Loritello and his captaincy of Brindisi, the latter gifted to him by Robert, the former held from the time of Drogo.
‘You may have been too successful, Roger.’
‘How can a man be too successful?’
‘You do not know Robert as I do,’ Geoffrey responded. ‘He does not warm to anyone he feels can match him in the field.’
‘He’s jealous?’ Roger asked.
‘Not jealous, but inclined to be made uncomfortable by an ability he perceives might equal his own. He fell out with William, Drogo and Humphrey, though I would add falling out with the latter was too easy.’
‘I pose no threat to him.’
Geoffrey sat forward and for once replied with feeling, which led Roger to think he was talking more about himself than the problem being discussed. ‘It is for the person who feels threatened to judge such a thing.’
‘Will Robert listen to you?’ he asked, in a calm voice.
With just a trace of bitterness Geoffrey said, ‘He never has before.’
‘I need you to advance me some funds.’
That made his brother guarded, though it did not engender an outright refusal. ‘I cannot spare much.’
